Family Matters
by Beewritestuff
Summary: Dean/Jo/Sam  It's hard to be exited when you can't exactly say which Winchester put a baby in your belly.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** If Supernatural was mine, there wouldn't be a need for a Roadhouse in the Sky.

**Notes:** Rated M for future chapters. And threesome. And probably for the entire Who's-The-Papa scenario. And I don't even know anymore.

* * *

They arrive at her door two months after she left a message on Dean's voice mail. Classic. They're as bad as their daddy, not that anyone would dream of saying that to them. Hell, Dean'd probably take it as a compliment. She kind of wishes they hadn't come; the call was courtesy if anything. Not calling would have been something unforgivable.

Jo heard the music before she heard the car pull up in the driveway, extra loud, just the way Dean likes it. She could only imagine he's playing full blast with the windows down to spite the near identical houses all white painted white as the fence posts. It's the best hiding spot of all; no one would expect Jo Harvelle to live in a gated community, suburbia supreme. She can't believe it herself; hates it undoubtedly as much as he does but she does have to live here. The Impala stuck out like a sore thumb against all the neat Prius and Minivans. Her throat ached a little to see it, the paint around it's belly softened under a coat of dust from the road but otherwise shiny in the sunlight. They're arguing softly, as far as she can tell from her hidden spot behind the curtains Dean refuses to leave the car. With a final furious swing of his arms, Sam slammed his door, ignoring Dean's yelp of protest and slumped towards her door, shoulders hunched forward, hands fisted in his back pockets. Jo swung the door wide before he could even knock and smiled wryly up at him. He gaped, fish like, from where he stood. "Sammy." Dean's still got the music going and she leaned beyond the door frame and raised her voice a pinch. "Would you turn it down? Christ!" That boy never moved so quickly in his life, the guitar solo screeching to a halt as he jerkily popped the tape out and all but jumped from his seat, half jogging towards her. She wasn't sure if it's because she sounded particularly venomous or because her baby bump is particularly impressive looking under her t-shirt.

Jo hadn't seen them, well she hadn't seen them for near five months now. Sam and Dean, her boys. Normally, she'd feel inclined to dish out hugs and abuse but, well, it's hard to get exited when you can't exactly say which Winchester put a baby in your belly.

"So," she remarked, with all the cheer she could muster, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "I guess we've got some catching up to do."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I don't own.

**Notes:** Just in case it isn't clear, we have moved backwards in time. And without the use of angels or TARDIS's. Pretty impressive, right? Right? (Ooooh Doctor Who-Supernatural crossover? THINK OF THE POSSIBILITIES.) Please don't call me on place names or ask where they are. I don't know. I mostly made it up. Laziness wins out over all.

* * *

They run into each other in April; she's trotting down the staircase from the apartment they're set to investigate. She grinned, jamming a thumb up the stairs. "Are you here for the haunting?" Clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder and winking at Sam as she passed, but otherwise on course, she tossed her words over her shoulder and kept on walking towards the double doors. "Sorry boys, beat you too it."

Sam's not the competitive type, not like most and getting jumped on a hunt isn't the worst thing in a world. Still, his eyes are wide and he squinted down the hallway after her, eyebrows quirked up in surprise. There's not much more to do but laugh so he does, chuckling a little awkwardly, fists digging deep into the pockets of his corduroy jacket. "Didn't see that coming."

"Shut it Sammy." Dean kicked the wall, hard enough for the cheap chandelier above their heads to sway and the paint and plaster to chip. "What the hell does she think she's doing?" He strode after her, flinging the duplex's doors wide but all that's outside is a dreary rainstorm, droplets pattering on the stone steps with dismal finality. He huffed and crossed his arms, squinting through the storm. "I swear, next time we see that girl, first thing I'm gonna do is stick her on a bus back home." He aimed another kick to the door, the kick echoing back dully.

* * *

When they meet up in July, the first thing Dean does is whistle and catcall over cleavage and long stretches of exposed leg, dragging Sam along behind who's blushing fitfully and trying to look anywhere but at down her low cut top or at the miniskirt hiked up her thighs. "And here we thought you where just a sweet young thang," Dean taunted, giving her a pointed once over.

Jo crossed her arms protectively over her chest and tossed her hair, but her cheeks were a little pink. "Is there something you want, Dean?"

"Just came into say hello, didn't we Sammy?" Dean smiled sweet as sugar. "Maybe we'll stay a bit, what'dya think Sam? Hungry?"

"Not really, thanks," Sam muttered to the ceiling like a prayer, glancing cautiously at Jo's face. "Do you...want my coat?" He gestured, blindly, towards her chest. "Or something?"

"Good god Sam!" Jo groaned in exasperation, spreading her arms out and tugging at the fabric of her shirt. "You can't be that much of a prude! It's a little bit of skin- not that bad."

"Oh, baby," Dean chorused, "don't be so hard on yourself. It's a lovely view." He beamed and shot the paper shell of a plastic straw he'd scooped from the table down her shirt where it stood straight and unashamed. Jo stared at him in horror before plucking it free, just a second to late.

"Check please," Sam muttered hopefully, eyes still trained up.

"I'm getting my manager," Jo warns and turns on heel, that bit of paper crushed in her small fists.

Dean just kept laughing. "Whatever you want, sweetheart. Oh, and Jo?" She stopped walking and shifted a little on heel so she was half facing him. "That coven you were looking into? Don't worry about it. Sammy and I took care of it." He slid out of the red pleather booth and saluted, smirk spread across his face like butter on bread. "See ya round."

"Bye, Jo," Sam mumbled and fled after Dean as he swaggered away, peeking back over his shoulder once. Her eyes were fixed on their backs, her expression set somewhere between fury and maybe a little bit of laughter. The temper won out an she tore off her apron, looking ready to wing cutlery across the room. He increased his pace to the car slightly; wouldn't put it past her to try shooting the Impala full of buckshot just to spite them.

* * *

After that it became a contest, a twisted game with obituaries and monsters, trying to beat her to the next mark, to show her how she just wasn't cut out for the job as she fought to prove herself with tooth and nail. All through July and into August they tried to out do each other. Jo beat them with another haunting in Allen and on a case in West Minister County; the Winchesters won Bakersville, Benton, Rawley, and Guilford. The jobs in Sanchez and Rocksville Sam delegated, were ties.

* * *

She had grave dirt smeared all over her face and under her nails, caking her palms and calves. Her scramble out of the grave was awkward and clumsy, hands clutching scrubby bits of grass in hopes of some amount of leverage before their roots burst from the dry clay. She finally conceded to Sam giving her a hand, toes clamoring uselessly on the sides of the grave as he easily pulled her up and out. She panted a little and smiled up at him, teeth flashing white under the beam of the lamplight. "Thanks." The sound of the coffin's lid cracking as Dean pried it open was sharp as thunder and she twitched a little, fingers fastening to the knife at her waist. He didn't bother with any reassurances, just retrieved the salt and gasoline, chucking them one by one to Dean's waiting hands. The gas sloshed frankly in the can, splattering wetly as Dean thoroughly soaked the body. The ghost, pacing outside the circle of salt Sam had ringed the grave with screeched in fury and clawed at nothing, glowing eyes rolling in it's sockets. Jo didn't shudder, just picked up her shotgun and leveled it at the shape, a young man in his twenties in a pressed suit coat, short blond hair awry and stained at the ends with the shadow of dried blood. He began to speak rapidly in french, ugly words that she didn't need to understand to know where threats. She didn't blink, but released the safety just in case. The bugger had already proven enough times that night to be a wily son-of-a-bitch. A grunt from behind her and a scuffle of feet; Dean clamored up from the grave. She didn't turn, not even when he struck the match, the sulfur smell sharp, and dropped it down. The wave of sudden heat hit her back and the bastard screamed one more time before dematerializing entirely in a flash of orange and she released a breath she didn't realize she was holding, wiping sweat from her forehead on the back of her palm. The boys grinned at each other in grim triumph, she stepped around them to retrieve her duffel, dusting clods of dirt off it's back. "Well that's that," she said agreeably, a small smile tugging up her lips as well, and hefted it over her shoulder. Dean's eyes snapped to attention; he gave her a long look over.

"Need a ride anywhere?"

An offer to get into that car of his? Her chest ached a little, longing to stretch across the upholstered seats and fall asleep to the purr of the engine. Instead, she shook her head. "Nah. There's a bus stop a mile down the road, think I'll catch the midnight run and go south." She took a long look at each of their faces, devoting them to memory, before waving casually. "I'll see you two around."

Sam watched her step carefully over the salt ring, stopping for a cautious breath before walking onward, further and further out of the light and down the winding graveyard path. Her shoulder blades jutted stubbornly out from under the fabric of her shirt and he groaned quietly. "Dean- we can't let her go off on her own. It's dark out."

Dean squinted after her for a moment, jaw set thoughtfully, before bending and rolling supplies back into the bag. "She's a big girl, Sammy, and she just killed one creepy dead son'f'a'bitch. Ain't any other nasties about that can fuck with her and that shotgun tonight."

"But where do you think shes' going?"

"Don't know, don't care," he lied cheerfully and bundled the bag into the hidden compartment in the trunk's bottom. He strode to his door and opened it wide, slipping the keys into the ignition. "Let's go."

"What if she tries to hitch hike?"

"She's heading towards the bus stop," Dean said staunchly, jerking his thump down the road. "Get in the car, Sammy, I want to get out of here." He did, and they both sat there mutely. The headlights offered a further stretch of light that'd she just stepped out of, just the swing of her hair on her back left visible. "You don't think she's that stupid...do you?" Sam shrugged and Dean grunts. "Well, whatever. It's not our problem." They sat in silence some more.

Sam's eyes went puppy-ish, his lower lip protruding ever so slightly. "Dean..."

"Fine, fine! Good god Sammy." He revved the car to life and began to coast after her, grousing under his breath. For once, Sam let it slide without comment, watching intently through the windshield as they gained on her. Dean braked gently, stopping in his grousing to glare a little at his brother, tossing out the insult in an almost friendly manner. "Bitch."

Sam rolled his eyes and muttered a quick "jerk," just as Jo tapped on his window. He rolled it down swiftly and smiled out at her awkwardly. She pushed her hair back and crouched a little, elbows resting on the door frame so she could see into the car, squinting a bit so she could see them. "Hey. Look, we just wanted to make sure that-"

Dean jabbed a thumb towards the backseat. "Get in the fucking car or we'll stuff you in the trunk."

Jo's nose wrinkled but she didn't step back, just arched an eyebrow. "Please tell me you've used that as a pickup line," she deadpanned. "I bet it'd work wonders."

"Jo," Dean growled dangerously and her lips thinned. Sam broke in before they could start to picker properly, reaching back to open the backseat. It hit her leg with a soft thump and she glanced down, like she was surprised to see it there at all, blinking softly like she was coming out of a dream.

"Please?"

Her gaze was still wary, like a stray dog unsure if it was safe to approach. She looked like she might make a break for it and Dean considered his trunk plan a little bit more seriously. Her resolve wavered and fell fast; Sam must have been breaking out the puppy eyes because she shifted her bag in, crawling across the seat to sit in the middle, daintily crossing her ankles. "I'm not going back home," she warns, a little petulantly and Sam nodded fast, before Dean could speak.

"Sure, sure, whatever."

Dean watched her reflection in the rear view nod, squirming a little, before starting his baby up again, peeling out of the rows of headstones and through the graveyard gates as fast as the thin winding paths will allow. The adrenaline started to wear off ten minutes down the highway; her eyelids beginning to shutter open and shut, but her voice was still bright when she spoke. "Driving anywhere in particular?"

"Besides that-a-way?" Dean grunted, nodding down the stretch of road before them. "Not really."

She sunk sideways onto her side, legs folding so she could lie comfortably. "Okay." Her eyes closed and stayed shut this time. He graciously turned the music down, glancing at Sam as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her body like a blanket. Sam shrugged under his scrutiny.

"She looked cold."

"Sure." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "So what're we gonna do with her?" His voice lowered unconsciously to a whisper. "I say we drive her to Ellen's before she can say boo." He frowned skeptically at the road. "Could probably make it if we take the next exit and drive all night." It's not a promising thought, Jo spitting like a bob cat at him, with no sleep under his belt as they bustle her back inside the Roadhouse walls but it's a firm possibility.

Sam negated it in seconds. "She'll just run off again." He's still twisted so he's facing her, a small smile on his face and Dean frowns. This doesn't bode well. He sensed the puppy dog eyes leveling with him, a pout coming on, that he'd already lost the war waged on Jo Harvelle. Dean wasn't one for dying quietly though.

"So what? She squats in my car?" His voice came out more confidently annoyed then his thoughts. "This is stupid."

"It's not that big a deal, is it?" Sam leveled Dean with what was definitely a puppy dog pout. Internally he swore, but Sam keeps talking in that low reasonable tone that he used to sucker people onto his side, to tell him things he needed to know. Dean was being handled and he knew it, hated it. "We can keep an eye on her this way. Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble." Sam firmly twisted back facing-forward, his face drawn with a shadow of jealousy, voice lowered huskily. "Get her back in school."

Dean grunted and glanced in the rear view again. She looked sweet, asleep. In the dim light he couldn't see the blood from a scratch on her arm or the dirt caking her skin. She looked just like a girl, nothing more, nothing less. He drew his eyes back forward. "Whatever."

They drove on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural doesn't belong to me.

**Timeline: **Falls somewhere after No Exit, but not yet hit BUABS. Which is officially the weirdest acronym. Ever. It's like bulbs and boobs combined. Moving on...

**Notes:** This entire story is really Mi's fault for letting me spam her inbox with ideas and babbling. Really. So if this goes totally down hill it's completely her fault. You'll have to forgive me if the characterization is off in parts, I haven't run much of this by her. (You can thank her for sparing you a pretty whiny bitch fight at one point.) Personally I feel like I'm settling back into my style and that this chapter is much improved. That could just be the 2 AM talking though. We'll see how I feel tomorrow.  
And yes Ash had to show up. Love me some Dr. Badass.

* * *

Dean's hands jittered over the steering wheel, the product of an excess of caffeine, as he finally steered off road. The tires gritted over the gravel parking lot of a diner who's sign had faded so much that the lettering was illegible beyond 'food' and 'beer'. Jo watched him from under hooded lids, still half dreaming. His thumbs tapped dully on the leather, mimicking the drum beats from the cassette playing before tap dancing away to prod Sam in the side. "Rise and shine, Sammy." Sam grunted in response, Dean poked him some more, finally shaking his shoulders roughly until Sam jerked awake. "Seven AM, sweetheart," Dean simpered. His eyes lit to hers in the mirror. "You too. Up and at 'em."

Jo shifted into a sitting position slowly, limbs prickling with pins and needles, sliding Sam's jacket off of her torso. She glanced at it in confusion, looking over at it's owner with a and tilting her head. He shook his as she tried to pass it back, so she let it fall limply back into her lap. It smelled like gunpowder and sweat, soap, the car, and something purely boy. She shrugged it on, the lining welcome insulation against the cool air. Her legs were a little stiff from being bent to her chest, she was small but the backseat was just a little smaller, so she stretched them out languidly. "I'm awake." Rubbing an eye, Jo froze as Dean's gaze became a little more calculating. And then she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. A little girl looked back with sleepy eyes and bed head, Sam's jacket swallowing her up like like she was playing dress up in her father's clothes. She promptly stopped the eye rubbing; it wasn't helping the image. Instead she stared out the window, taking in the thick iron clouds that billowed on the horizon, growing larger and more threatening with each breath and tried to subtly neaten her hair. "Looks like it's going to storm."

Both boys twitched at that, even Sam, who had let his cheek pillow against the glass again, and appeared to have fallen back asleep. They glared at the clouds like they where harbingers of doom and destruction, not just bearers of rain. "Let's go," Sam murmured, voice low and they fled inside as the first raindrops began to fall.

The Roadhouse wasn't shabby, it was rustic, tastefully distressed, and anyone who couldn't make the distinction would get a sucker punch for their troubles. This place was just worn down: dirty floors and an omnipresent smell of burned meat. They walked towards a booth in the back, the vinyl peeling and stained suspiciously. Sam and Jo exchanged glances before he sighed and ushered her in first. "They've got coffee," he murmured, sounding more like he was coaxing himself than her. "And the paper."

"And pie," Dean piped up, beaming brightly at them both in a way that was an unnatural and offensive way to face morning.

* * *

He dodged the menu that Sam chucked at his head with a certain grace.

* * *

Sam stopped paying attention to all of them once he buried his nose in the obituaries, a mug of coffee clutched in his hand that he sipped every other minute. Jo lethargically played with her silverware; the weight was off but she knew the social blunders of drawing a proper blade and toying with it casually in public places. Dean just leered at their waitress as she shelled out their orders. Jo's plate of flapjacks clattered with a particular aggression onto the table top, but that was all the attention she received as the women turned to face Dean. "How long you staying in town?" she asked, deliberating intently on the 'you', each word enunciated between snaps of her gum. It seemed to be directly related to the slight twitch Sam had developed, but he shielded it well behind his paper. Dean didn't seem to mind, but that probably had to have something to do with the pie he'd just received and the amount of cleavage that was hovering close to his face.

"Oh please," Jo scoffed softly as she drenched the tower of pancakes in syrup. The waitress leveled her with a hard glare. Jo met it with uncharacteristic blandness until the other woman looked away and a familiar self-satisfied look settled on her face as she tucked back in to her food.

He probably shouldn't have been so grateful that Jo harbored a not-so-secret-thing for his brother, but whatever could drive away the women that seemed to be magnetically drawn to Dean was good enough for Sam.

It was too early for Dean to be picking up chicks. It was just too damn early.

* * *

"Gimme some of you're omelet."

"Dude! No way. Eat your own food!"

"Didn't you ever learn to share Sammy?"

"Dean, no!"

"Ugh, fine. Omelets are for pussies anyhow."

"..."

"Oh I know you don't think you're getting any of my pancakes."

"Pfft. Like I wanted any, sweetheart."

"Jo, you want some coffee?"

"Can I have a sip? Thanks."

"Sure thing."

"You're both bitches, you know that? Complete bitches."

* * *

"So," Dean drawled, poking the first page with his fork. "Anything interesting in the news?"

Sam shrugged indifferently but the smile he flashed spoke otherwise. "Not much." He tapped an article with a forefinger. "Couple kids have died this past month, though. Drownings." He passed the paper to Dean, who picked it up and began to scan it earnestly. "There isn't much information here, just mentions a boating accident but-" he shifted to glance at Jo and she leaned forward curiously, integrating herself into the conversation. "Two girls off the swim team drowned."

"Any witnesses?" Jo asked, craning across the tabletop to peek at the paper. Dean shoved her back to her seat, but passed it over a second after.

"Yeah. Younger sister." He leaned back. "I dunno Sammy. Doesn't sound like much."

Sam shrugged. "Just let me do a little research. If nothing pans out, I'll just look for something new. Bound to be something in the area."

Dean frowned and rubbed his jaw. "Fine. I could use some sleep anyhow."

* * *

Dean wasn't much for small talk, so they just stood under the lip of the roof as the rain fell in large graceless drops, waiting for Sam, half visible through the streaky windows, to get the credit card back so they could book it. Jo shifted from foot to foot, her hands buried up past her wrists in the deep pockets of Sam's jacket. She jerked her head towards him as he spoke, the lowness of his tone hidden in the patter of the raindrops. "You should call Ellen." Before she could open her mouth to say anything he held up a hand. "Look, I ain't nosin' my way into your family business, and I'm not saying you should go home." He leveled her with a look. "Not right now at least." He pulled the collar of his jacket up, striding out into the rainfall. "Ain't nothing wrong with hunting for your Dad," he repeated, calling up the bones of a conversation past, "but don't leave your Mom worrying either."

Sam came trotting out, paper folded in his fist, and spared her from speaking.

* * *

He was a lump under the sheets, but she knew better to think he was asleep. Still, he didn't say a word when she padded to the side of the bed where the cell lay, conspicuous on the otherwise bare nightstand. He cracked a lid though and watched her pocket it, escaping back towards the door. Bless him; for once Dean Winchester held his tongue.

* * *

"Hello." The voice sounded vague, distracted, possibly even drunk, and was most definitely not Ellen, not even in her foulest mood.

"Ash?"

The line just breathed, crackling with static from a bad connection and two people swallowing hard on nothing but air. "Baby girl?" He sounded more alert now. "Shit, Jojo, is that you?"

She smiled and cupped the phone to her cheek. "Hey." Her voice dropped to a whisper and she repeated herself, louder. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." She could hear him moving about on the other end, the soft creaks the floorboards made as he crossed the room, all quiet, too early to bother with music. She nearly started to bawl, so sudden was the bout of homesickness. Ash seemed equally upset. "Dammit. You're Mama...shit shit shit. She just left. Won't be back till tomorrow evening."

"Oh." She could hear his fingers tapping on the keyboard of that computer he'd put together from god-knows-what scrap he'd rescued from the junk pile out back. "What're you-"

"Tracking you're call." His voice was raw, not like he'd been yelling and scrapping all night, but like he might cry too. Her heart broke into pieces.

"I'm on Dean's cell. Out with them, the boys, in," she choked a little, and changed her tune. "I'm sorry." She felt small, finally the inexperienced child they'd made her out to be. "I'm sorry, so sorry." She didn't cry, didn't make a sound except for her strings of apologies that she whispered into the receiver.

"You're with Dean and Sam," he reiterated after a minute of silence. "They taking care of you?"

"Don't need anybody to take care of me, Ash." He chuckled, the sound a little watery and she laughed a little too. "They are though. Bought me breakfast and everything." She snickered. "Remember when you made me pancakes, and dropped that cigarette in the batter? And everything else tasted like nicotine for the rest of the day? Even the soda?" She drew her knees up to her chest, the point of the story fading from her thoughts. She cleared her throat and mumbled the confession daringly. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, girly." The door creaked as Dean stepped out and shut it behind him, leaning against the frame. He nodded with approval when she looked back, but the rest of his expression she could place, just that the softness of it seemed encouraging.

"Ash, she got her cell on her?"

"Nah. Think she broke it yesterday. Been in the foulest mood since you left." Jo's stomach sank, but Ash continued merciously. "She near snapped a customers collarbone when she tossed him out the door last week."

"Jesus."

"You bet." His voice grew gritty and serious, a strange turn of events for Ash who normally couldn't pull off authoratative to save his ass. "You call back, alright, or I swear I'll jack a car and haul you back here myself."

She didn't comment about Ash's lack of a lisence or the anxiety he faced when he left the Roadhouse without Jo on his arm or Ellen on his heels. "I will. I promise." She closed her eyes. "Tell her I'm alright, though, will ya? That I'm here with them? I'll-" She bit her lip. "Tell her I love her, okay?"

"Ten four."

She cleared her throat. "I love you too, Ash." The call cuts before he can reply, which is alright, because if he had she would have sobbed despite any intenion otherwise. She rubbed her eyes for a moment, just to be sure, before tossing the phone to Dean. He caught it with ease, slipping it back into the pocket of his jeans. "Thought you where sleeping."

He shrugged. "Well I'm not." His boots stomped as he crossed towards her, nudging her spine with a careful jab of his knee. She looked up and he smiled, a real smile, nothing mocking or patronizing. She stood and before she realized what she was doing, she'd let her head fall against his shoulder. "How's Ellen?"

"She wasn't there." She breathed out one long sigh into his shoulder before stepping back. "We're all dead meat when she hears though. Y'all especially."

"Don't I know it, sweetheart." His laughter was only mildly hysterical.

* * *

Sam returned an hour and a half later with findings to present. Three boys drowned off their speedboat, assumably drunk, one child from the beach that bordered his backyard, and the two sisters, with only one witness en mass.

"She says it was a horse." Dean repeated, voice heavy with skepticism. "A horse drowned her sisters?" He frowned. "Like some fucking demon steed?"

"Actually, yeah." Sam turned his computer and tilted the screen so it was facing Dean. "Well almost. Fairy horse."

"Oh a fairy horse, right." Dean sneered, but he bent to examine the computer anyway.

"They're called kelpies. The description varies from legend to legend, but they're supposed to be fairy horses that drown anyone who gets on their back. Like to go after children." Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Dad's got a couple pages on them in his journal."

Dean wrinkled his nose, blunt fingers scrolling carefully down the webpage. "He does? I don't remember. Guess we've got some reading to do."

Jo's feet tapped on the floor. "And what about the Kelpie? We know what it is and it's just hiding in the lake right? That's a breeze. We take a boat out and shoot the bitch dead."

Dean turned an eye on her. "Cool your heels there, sweetheart. We aren't running into this unprepared." Never mind that running into situations unprepared was one of Dean's favorite hobbies. "Just sharpen some knives alright and try," he ordered hopelessly, "not to do anything stupid for the couple minutes we don't have an eye on you, huh?"

* * *

So she lasted more than a few minutes, but Jo found herself preparing to do something stupid.

"That is most definitely," Jo breathed, "not a horse", and berated her rifles choice to jam at this particular moment. Did she clean her guns just about every other evening?  
The creature in question was in fact human shaped, specifically female. A woman in the moonlight, unearthly handsome, naked and pale as the light it was bathed in. It's wet, inky hair fell just over bare breasts; it took one careful step after the other, striding into the greenish water, beckoning to someone just out of Jo's sight. Several someones as it turned out, crossing into her view a breath after. Two boys, gangly, not yet into puberty. She bit the inside of her cheek. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck." No bullets, no boys, just one Jo Harvelle, a useless gun, and her father's knife. She was supposed to wait, just scout around, not run into anything half-cocked but… Her teeth clenched. Time was rather short. Swinging the rifle up she charged through the bracken towards the party. The kelpie froze and Jo shuddered as it's eyes met hers; an alien gaze, no pupils to speak of, just pools of silver. The children took another gape mouthed step and she grabbed one's arm, twisting him off balance and sending him toppling backwards, away from the water. The other stared at her blankly. The one she knocked on his ass seemed to have more sense in him now. Who says a little violence didn't do a body some good? He lurched forward and yanked his friend back too, staring at her blankly.

"Wha- What's going on?"

She tossed her hair out of her face, leveling the rifle and aiming between the bitches eyes. "Git." There was a scrabble of sound; sneakers pounding up the cement of the boat access. She peeked at them quickly, at their hands clenched together, quick flashes of their paniced faces. Her teeth gritted together and she refocused on the kelpie.

The kelpie's lips pursed prettily in a pout. "Well that's not nice. You chased away my friends." It took in the dark expression on Jo's face and changed tactics, layering on a smile sweet as syrup. "They're just little morsels." Those lips parted, revealing square cut horse teeth and Jo repressed as shiver. "No one would miss a little bite."

"They're babies," Jo spat and the kelpie curled closer, a fondness on it's face that made bile rise up Jo's throat.

"Little lambs."

She screeched furiously and swung the rifle like a baseball bat, and even with the satisfaction of clocking that monster in the face, sending her staggering back into the fetid water, she knows she's fucked up. This was an amateur move. She swung out again with the rifle, this time smashing the kelpie in the stomach with the butt, but the bitch grabbed the gun, twisting it from Jo's hands and throwing it backwards, pulling Jo forward to land awkwardly on her knees with water up to her collarbone. Hands weaved into her hair before she had a chance to react, pushing her face under. Jo gasped in shock, bubbles breaking from her mouth, as foul tasting liquid filling her mouth. She tried not to choke, tried not to swallow. She failed.

The kelpie hauled her up again, her scalp protesting, pressing their faces cheek to cheek as Jo spat mouth fulls of the stuff out. "You all thrash so splendidly when you go under," it hissed, breath scented heavily with pond weed and dead fish. "It's like ecstasy. The way your eyes roll back and you're lips part." It licked it's lips, the tongue gray and arrow sharp at the tip. "I just want to eat you up."

Jo hacked for more air, her eyes squeezing shut, but her fingers fumbled at a different task, drawing her knife. "Eat this," she choked, and stabbed the creature in the side. It's scream was ungodly and piercing, she wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, instead she just drove it deeper. "Pure iron, bitch."

It backhanded her then, knocking her flat as it floundered away to draw the knife from it's side. She caught sight of the wound as she kicked out, propelling herself awkwardly backwards, a slash puckered and burned, blood pooling down it's hip. It's palm had blistered too, as far as Jo could tell, from the fleeting look she got as the kelpie nickered the blade back onto the access, the metal clanging sharply when it hit cement. It was back on Jo in an instant, panting slightly, voices deadly with promise. "I'll get you for that."

Tires churned gravel behind them, but there was no chance to look behind her, to see if it was the Impala. It was to late for that, she'd played her cards and lost her hand. It's fingers bit into her arms, dragging her into the water, it's eyes glittering like polished dimes. "Ride me." Several different dirty jokes came to her mind complete with muted studio laugh tracks, even as her head bobbed under, eyes tearing frantically to the blurry silhouettes running into their wake.

Underwater, everything was dark, darker than she expected. Her hair haloed her face in bright alien tendrils that tangled in front of her eyes. The bubbles of oxygen bursting past her lips were darts of silver; she watched them with interest, head throbbing. It was hard to thrash, to fight, the water catching her limbs, rendering everything in slow motion. Every move is more difficult than the first.

Jo kept kicking.

It was hard to see too, hard to keep her eyes open, but she squinted through the murk at those dime-eyes that stared lustfully at her jerking limbs. Black spots dance through her vision, becoming harder to tell if they where open or closed. The last of the bubbles went up as arms grabbed her waist, hauling her back, away from the flash of silver she could just barely catch.

* * *

She was dead weight in waterlogged clothes, but Sam managed to keep them both afloat treading water, waiting for Dean to surface. She wasn't much help, though she tried, feet limply stirring the water as she spluttered into his shoulder. Dean came up a breath after them, a knife clenched in his teeth. She blinked at him blearily, but his face was stone smooth, except for his eye, glittering with fury, still not satisfied, even when the body bubbled up behind them. He shouldered half of her weight though, and the trio kicked to shore, Jo supported between their bodies.

Sam's feet touched first, then Dean's, and they stumbled forward, a graceless tangle of limbs, to collapse half in the silty shallows, half on the concrete. She let herself lie flat on her belly and tremble, lungs still protesting as she wheezed. Sam hadn't let go off her, not completely. He sat silent and wretched, eyes shaded by the wet mop of hair hanging down heavily over his forehead. Dean just scowled, pitiless. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Chasing after it all by yourself, with what Jo? One little pig-sticker?" He pounded the ground with his fist. "What the hell where you thinking?"

It hurt her already raw throat to shout back, but she did anyway, hauling herself onto her elbows. It'd take more than nearly drowning to make her back down from a fight. "That's not fair, Dean," she spat furiously. "There were children! They would've gotten killed!"

"Like you nearly did? What if we hadn't...what..."

"Well you did."

"But what if we hadn't made it in time!" His eyes burned into hers with more terror than anger now and she could almost see it, the Winchesters fishing her corpse from the lake. It was sobering, but not enough to change her mind.

"I had too." She looked between them, Dean's coiled fury and Sam, staring at her like she wasn't really there, not really breathing beside him, but a victim under the waves. She refused to be guilted. Not yet. "I had too."

Dean looked like he wanted to spit nails or cry, kiss her, hit her, anything but sit there. He finally rocked to his feet, striding for a rowboat tucked into the grass. "I'm gonna get the body. You just-" He frowned. "Stay put."

She did with no complaint, letting her head fall back against the ground. Everything hurt to much to move, anyway. Sam trailed after Dean slowly; She heard the grit as they pull the boat out. Her eyes closed slowly.

Time flows by funny ways. One blink, and they were hauling a woman out of the water. Two blinks. The corpse is on the cement below her. Sam carefully pulls her away as Dean drenches the body in salt and gasoline, muttering curses as he goes. Sam tossed the lit match and the body lit up like a roman candle. They walked away without looking back, Sam sweeping her up into his arms and striding purposefully towards the car. "I can walk," she mumbled, even as she wrapped her arms around his neck. No one payed any attention, Sam just hefted her onto one hip so he could open the door. He doesn't shift her into the back either, just settles her on his lap, arms tight around her. Dean doesn't start her up yet, just watches them both for a second and she smiles at him weakly, head fallen against Sam's bicep.

The flames burn bright in the rear-view mirror.

* * *

It hit her how close she came to dying in the hotel bathroom after a long shower. Dean, who usually called first dibs on showers had hustled her in and she was all too happy to stand under hot rivulets of water, anything to get rid of the sensation of those cold hands gripping tight on her arms. She was standing, water pooling at her feet, studying the bruises already forming on her arms one moment, the next on the cheap tile floor, hyperventilating into the clean white towel Dean had passed her fifteen minutes past. She tried to keep quiet, muffling hiccups and panicked sobs into the terrycloth, her hair falling in sodden locks over her eyes. It took twenty minutes to get it all under control and another five to be clean herself up, wash away the redness around her eyes with a ratty washcloth dug out from under the sink.

But they heard her. Of course they did. They pretended they didn't, but there's knowing glances cast between them, an awkwardness in the room that grows tenser as Sam cautiously stepped towards her. "Jo...?"

"I'm tired," she muttered shortly, sidestepping the offer of comfort because if he touches her, she'll break. "Just gonna go to sleep."

He stepped back, hands held up like she's pointing a gun. He and Dean know each other inside and out, know how to react in these situations. But her? She's a mystery, an anomaly, a girl in the backseat. They don't bring it up again, just let her tuck herself under the covers so she can spend the night staring at the ceiling, heart thumping in her chest, a steady pulsing reminder that she is still alive. Morning will find a bag of donuts outside her door; Dean's only eaten two.

* * *

They leave town to the tune of REO Speedwagon, the tape settled into the deck without her saying a word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:**I don't own Supernatural but I so could buy that car and drive around killing things.

**Timeline:** Still somewhere between No Exit and BUABS.

**Rated**: T. Ratings will increase eventually, I promise.

**Notes:** I like to pretend I update weekly. But I don't. And seeing as I have never made an official update schedule I SUFFER NO FEELINGS OF GUILT. Okay, that's a lie, I do. Because this is my first update this month...on the second-to-last day. So thank you for waiting.  
I'm not really sure how long I want this story to go on for, it's kind of got a mind of it's own. Right now, I'm just working on bringing in the usual Sam and Dean brotherly-love. And then knitting Jo into the backseat and going back over to edit previous chapters because I usually enter this at 3 AM and my check-overs aren't that thorough, I have to admit. It's totally do-able. So if you get a couple random update notices but it really hasn't updated, I'm sorry. Be prepared for more Roadhouse too, because I am still in denial about Ash's death and the future waiting in the episodes I haven't watched yet. I'm in the beginning of Season Four; I'm so behind it's not even funny. But you better beware when I hit Season Five, I will be so pissed. (OhgodnotmyHarvelles.)

Rant end. Enjoy.

* * *

Even through his stint at Stanford, when he tried to remake himself out of the hunter and into a cookie-cutter shape of a normal civilian with a normal life, Sam still couldn't break free of John's rules. You don't go weaponless. Ever. So he found ways to stash knives and glocks in his dorm, before he and Jess hooked up and kept a flat together, when the stashing became a whole different kind of tricky. He still cased rooms when he entered whether lecture halls or frat houses, still occasionally found himself reading the obits when Jess stole the rest of the paper. He had to push himself to put the rules aside, to slip them slowly back in his priority list so he could study for exams without every instinct screaming at him to load up the rifle, the one he'd stashed out of everyone's reach but his own at the top of the closet, when lights flickered or the walls creaked ominously. And then Dean came back and he realized they weren't as well buried as he thought. They were instinct, finely tuned as his ability to fight, a skill John had encouraged mindlessly to the chagrin of twelve year old Sam, who'd just wanted to play soccer at the park.

The golden rule? Protect your brother. After that, he wasn't sure of the ranking. Not splitting up, because bad things happened when you did, and when you have to split, be extra careful, might have been number one. Then again, it could have just have been easily "kill all the evil shit in sight" or "double-tap", but it was up there.

It was harder to hate the old man for that now that he was dead, harder still how he died, falling flat on the shiny hospital floor, soul sold for Dean and Sam had spent a long time cultivating a hatred for his father, for what he'd done to them. Because as much as John loved them, and he did, down to his very marrow, he had made them what they were: codependent soldier boys driving down the line in his old car, half crazy with bottled angst and secret knowledge that the world ignored. And now he was dead and it was just them. Two souls sewn together with their father's clumsy stitches, seams pulled tight. Driving. Always driving with their father's legacy riding shotgun.

It wasn't like they spent every second together but it felt damn close. You couldn't spend all that time crammed in a car, side by side, sharing hotel rooms and falling asleep to the sound of the others breath, and not end up feeling strange walking down sidewalks by yourself without the sound of the others footsteps. Sam didn't think about it much, for one because it was second nature and two, Winchesters + psychology meant a shit load of trouble and dwelling on the fact that he would never ever be normal was depressing.  
So they stuck side by side and if called out, they came up with excuses. Dean relied on the tried-and-true "Sammy, you're my little brother. And a dumb ass. Without me there, you'll never learn how to hit on a woman properly or you'll become a total nerd, more so than now. So shut it." Sam's excuse was even simpler. Dean by himself was a recipe for disaster. With Dean, you had to be wary of the classics (namely booze, women, and law enforcement) but leave room for the inconceivable too.

He was beginning to think though, that the hawk eyes that Ellen kept on her daughter might have a splash of sense in them as well.

Jo Harvelle was at first glance waifish and delicate, soft blond hair, and wide brown eyes. Then you caught the plant of her feet, the clench of her jaw, the tilt of her chin: pure stubborn and spitfire, the light in her eyes steely and still cast with the conviction of her own invulnerability. She didn't attract trouble like they did; she courted it, sought it, pursued it. Jo caught it openhanded and never seemed to be aware of it's propensity for biting, how it left the hunters she regarded with a certain hero worship scarred and broken, how it killed more then it let go. She was nativity at it's finest, which was strange coupled with a shotgun and her capability, raw as it was.

That potential was what made it worse. She was a rookie, no doubts, flinging herself into fights with puppyish enthusiasm, but she was damn good. Not just at the job, were you had to admit she was a fine a shot as she was skilled with a blade, but good at the con. Who wouldn't trust a little blond who looked no more dangerous than your average high school cheerleader? She batted her eyelashes and wrapped boys around her finger, became the confidant teenage girls dreamed off, sweet talked her way into widow's kitchens, played innocent, played sweet, played slutty, played dumb. She had a scary way of knitting herself into roles: a girlfriend, a kid sister, a roommate, an enemy, the same way she'd knitted herself into the backseat, her duffel nestling between theirs on hotel floors. She was willing willing to flirt, sob, and if all else failed kick and claw her way through opposition. She toyed with men in bars when she was bored, drank heavily just to prove she could, even though every bartender suspected her of being a sixteen and not worth her twenty-one years, and had long ago developed a selective deafness to words such as "no" or "don't". At least now she called home regularly.

* * *

She was talking softly into the payphone as Dean kicked his heels on the hood of the car, itching to keep driving but not daring to try to hustle Ellen along when she wanted to talk to her girl. Sam leaned on the side of the car with the lurking feeling that some how Ellen could, would, and was at least plotting to find a way to shoot them through the phone line from the Roadhouse three states away. Jo sounded like she was wrapping it up though, murmuring quiet "I love you too"'s before pausing. "Erm. Sure. I'll get him right over here." She glanced up and Dean hopped off the hood, puffs of dust rising when his boots hit the ground but she shook her head and peered at Sam, still speaking into the receiver. "What do you want him for anyhow?" A slow beat and annoyance creeps into her voice. "Mother..." The boys exchanged looks. Sam's stomach dropped down to his toes.

Dude-you-are-so-fucked was clearly written on Dean's face; Sam just tried not to imagine crows picking at his bones as he walked to the booth, slow, like he was on his way to the chair. Jo's brow was furrowed when she passed him the phone, she shrugged and patted him on the shoulder in equal combinations sympathy and nerves, hovering uncertainly outside the Plexiglas.

Dimly, he could hear the bustle of the Roadhouse, clinking glasses, fuzzy music from the juke, and a male voice he presumed was Ash rising and falling, the words indistinguishable. "Sam?" Ellen's voice was familiar and guarded. His sounded tinny and strangely pitched in return.

"Ma'am?"

"So you picked my girl up off the side of the road, is that right?" Nothing telling in her tone, but all the hair on his neck is prickled.

Dean joined Jo in her hovering, his face stricken with pained curiosity and fitful righteous terror. 'What does she want?' he mouthed and Sam shrugged in response. Jo's lips pursed and her fingers clenched reflexively in fists. She motioned for him to hang up the phone and flee back to the safety of the car. He shook his head fervently no, shuddering in mild terror.

"Yes Ma'am." His voice was still godawful tinny.

"Well that's mighty kind of you Sam. Nice of you to watch out for her like that. I appreciate it." He wasn't sure where this is going, besides someplace bad and possibly painful, but he sensed he's wasn't supposed to speak yet. "See, I can trust you to take care of my daughter, right?"

"Ellen?"

"Because she's my baby, Sammy." His pet name didn't sound motherly on her tongue, like it sometimes had, like he'd imagined his own Mother would have said it, except sweet, without Ellen's characteristic hardass, badass gruffness. The faint resistant Southern twang to her voice makes it sound fierce, a promise he doesn't want to touch. He tries not to gulp. "And I just can't understand why she's still in that car with you and your brother, doing the lord's most stupid work I have ever seen instead of back here. What, in huntin, do you think is good for my girl?" She stopped herself with a harsh uneven breath that if it was anyone else in the world, Sam would categorize as a sob. It might very well be, but with Ellen, he has the grace to not ask. Her question hums between them, solid and he replied with honesty, tentative but firm.

"If she wasn't with us, she'd still be out there. Even if we brought her home, she'd end up back on the road." He paused and added a quick ma'am, just in case he wasn't treading carefully enough.

The silence carries for awhile before Ellen sighs, one deep rattling breath, sniffing a little. Sam was fairly certain he'd stopped breathing all together. "If anything happens to her," she warns finally, "I'll be murderin both you and your brother, got it?"

"Got it."

"Alright then. You boys take care." The line went dead. He held the phone in his hand for a moment before carefully settling it back into it's cradle and stepped back out into fresh air. Jo latched her fingers about his wrist, searching his face.

"What'd she have to say?"

Sam swallowed and rubbed a sweaty palm on the leg of his jeans. "She uh...told us to take care."

She drew back a step, frowning, suspicion rolling off of her in waves. "That's all?"

A firm hand snatched his arm; Dean clutched it tight and steering Jo by the shoulder in a similar fashion towards the car, the look on his face clear that he wasn't buying but too impatient to ask, as for now. It was easy to imagine the gist. Blahblahblah take care of Jo blahblah shotgun up the ass. "Whatever. This is just more proof that you're mother is the scariest woman alive."

Jo smiled as she wiggled into the backseat. "Damn straight."

* * *

Dean was pacing when Sam comes back to the hotel from a food run, greasy paper bags in one hand, cold beers in the other. He could see it through the flutter of the curtains, his brother's shadow crossing back and forth rapidly, his path unbroken by any pauses to fiddle with weapons or his hair or his dick, so it couldn't be his normal impatience to get going on a hunt. Sam sighed, opening the door slowly and tried not to drop anything. Dean's eyes immediately lit on Sam's, wide and overly bright, brows drawn. "Sammy!" he hissed conspiratorially as Sam placed everything on a nightstand, taking a quick glance around the room to assess damages. Nothing broken or knocked over. Right. Not that kind of fight then.

"What was it about this time?" he asked back, just as soft, glancing around the room. "Is she still-"

"Bathroom." Dean nodded to the door, more than half closed, just a flicker of the mirror visible. His hands rose and fell as he tried to come up with the words. "She won'- dammit! She won't listen to me!"

Sam frowned. There wasn't a day that the two didn't squabble, about little things like piss-breaks or whether or not Dean thought Jo should accompany them on this or that hunt. "And this is new since...?"

Dean glare darkened, opening his mouth to argue before Jo broke in, her voice bouncing off the bathroom tiles, giving it a weird cadence. "I can hear you," she sing-sang and Dean threw his arms in the air.

"Good! Then listen to me when I tell you, you little-"

She spoke over him with oblivious serenity; Dean snarled viciously and pounded on the wall with his fist, the plaster echoing back dully. "Scale of one to ten, Sam, how gross is the food?"

Poking his fingers through the top of the bags Sam peered in, reacquainting himself with the deflated buns and greasy patties and the faintly singed smell they exuded. "It's edible. The place was a little grungy, but the burgers didn't look so bad." Dean looked at him, betrayed and he rolled his eyes a little, sick of his part as middleman and peacemaker. "What? What did I...?"

"Oh you'll see. Just you wait Sammy-boy, just you wait." Dean turned his head attention to the bathroom door. "You are NOT going out in that!"

"You sound like my Mother."

Dean spluttered for a moment, then turned on heel. "I tried, I really tried," he mumbled. "Sammy's the one who insisted on picking her up, it wasn't my fault." His voice raised to a bellow in a last ditch effort. "I WILL TIE YOU TO THIS BED, JO, I MEAN IT."

She popped her head outside the door and winked. "Kinky." Dean groaned and collapsed in the armchair by an ancient tv set, settled in for a good long sulk.

Sam squinted at Jo and she gave him a little cheery wave before popping back inside the bathroom to do...girl things. Or whatever. The best move was to ignore them and Sam had mastered ignoring Dean's antics when he was in third grade so it wasn't that hard. He opened one of the paper bags, pulled out a burger and sat gingerly on the bed Dean hadn't instantly staked as his, trying not to think hard about what he was eating and just focusing on how it didn't taste half bad, for once. He twisted the cap off of one of the beers to chase it down. The meat was a little bland, the drink a little sour, but it didn't matter. The smell was enough to draw Dean in; he snatched up his share and sat beside Sam, tearing into his food and making small pleased noises despite himself as it hit his tongue. Sam smiled a little and rolled his eyes again. "So," he prompted after Dean had swallowed. "What's it this time? She take your shirt or something?"

Dean took another bite, smaller, more reasonable and spoke around it. "Your the only one who lets her nab things from your bag, dumb ass. My clothes are mine. End." He swallowed hard. "Of." A vicious bite. "Story."  
The mattress shifted gently as she clamored up behind them, nabbing the last paper bag. Sam looked down his nose at her; the sun had splattered more freckles across it's bridge, pale uneven splotches unlike Dean's that grew to be prominent constellations the more they where exposed. "Keep telling yourself that Dean-o. Sam steals your socks all the time." Dean grunted and kicked Sam's shins halfheartedly. Sam didn't protest. He was otherwise occupied.

"Are those...?" He felt like his voice was going to break, like he was fourteen again, just stricken with awful growing pains and sudden words that became high falsetto squawks, so pitiful Dean hadn't had the heart to mock him. He stared at Dean helplessly. "Is she wearing fuck-me boots?"

Dean smirked and took another unforgiving bite, smug now-you-understand painted on his face. "Gotta say Sammy, mildly impressed that you actually-"

"Shut up." He hasn't taken his eyes off of Jo and she in turn stares back with measured coolness, as if this isn't strange. Her skirt's short, a strip of stomach visible between the hem of her shirt and the skirt's top. It's not out there in the nitty-gritty of girl-on-the-prowl couture that he remembers from college parties but from Jo, who he's only seen in jeans and tanks and an old oversize tee he presumes was once Ash's, it's strange. She's actually showing off cleavage, which she doesn't have much off, but still.

She finally huffs, exasperated. "Look, you nimrods." Dean scowled at her; she scowled back. Sam just kept blinking at her shoes, soft looking dark brown leather boots that slip over her kneecaps. "The credit cards burned out; I'm just earning us some fast cash the best way I know how."

Dean looked her over, slow from head to toe, and Sam watched the muscles in her limbs quiver as she instinctively straightened her spine, somehow straddling the line between a soldiers stance and that of a girl in love, hoping for approval. In contrast, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, ready to ward off Dean's sneer which came, cold and brittle. "So the plan is to whore yourself out?"

Her smile was sharp as broken glass. "Don't get territorial Dean- I know that's your game, not mine." She shrugged, rocking back on her heels, hands on her hips. "Playing pool shark with a bunch of college boys usually racks in more cash when you've got the breasts to back it up." She wagged a finger and walked out the door before either can think to protest. "Don't wait up."

They stared after her a moment, Dean's face twisting like he's swallowed sour milk before he started to curse, hefting his jacket off of his bed and over his shoulders. He harrumphed when he caught Sam's eyes on him, still wide with surprise. "It's not like we can really let her go out by alone," he growled gruffly, tugging at the laces of his boots so he doesn't have to look at Sam. "Leave her alone for one second, I swear, and she rounds up more trouble than a fucking cowboy at a rodeo."

Sam nodded helpfully. "And her Mother would kill us."

"That too."

* * *

She's waiting on a curb down the street and her face brightened as the car slows to a stop beside her. "Oh thank god," she murmured and clamored clumsily into the backseat. No one offers any comment about their latest blowout because that's how their fights go, blowing in and out like summer squalls, quick as a blink. "I thought you were going to make me walk. And in these heels!"

* * *

Jo'd made the rules very clear, as clear as Dean had made for them both that they would play the game so long as it suited them; a grudging treaty between Harvelle and Winchester pride. Sit down, shut up, do whatever they wanted as long as it didn't impede her making with the cute. Or the drunken ditz act, whatever you wanted to call it. Sam took another swallow from his beer, nursing it like a grudge. So he and Dean had been exiled to playing bar fly, though Dean had won twenty-five bucks in a couple rounds of darts before resuming glowering at Jo's mark. "Can I just say she has awful taste in men?" Sam squinted at him, eyebrows arching. Dean paused, wrinkling his nose like the neon lights of Jo's crush had just caught his attention. "Okay...shut up." Across the room, her laughter rang out, tinny and false. Both brothers cringed, eyes unconsciously flitting back to the scene.

She was pushed up against her mark's chest, a frat boy with a weasley face and a sparse beard who's hands slunk lower and lower on Jo's hips. "I bet you..." she slurred coyly, wobbling on her shoes enough so that the guy grabbed her arm to steady her. She smiled and giggled, eyes batting furiously. Sam took another swallow. "I bet I can beat you at a game of..." she looked around, head swinging loose, blond hair flicking idly down her back, "that!" She pointed to the pool table.

"Pool?" The guy's face grew skeptical, his voice was a dull drone, just carried over the chatter around them. "You know how to play?"

She drew her lips into a lopsided smile, bobbing up on her toes. "Nope." Her hands clutched his arms. "You can teach me."

He smiled at her indulgently. He had a creepy smile. Definitely a pervert. Probably skipped paying his taxes. Probably an alcoholic. Probably...

"I don't like him," Dean affirmed from Sam's elbow. "Definitely a perv. Married. Two kids." His eyes were fixed as intently on them as Sam's.

"Dick," Sam pronounced. From the corner of his eye he sees Jo grab the creeps hand, drag him to the table. They started the game slow, the guy taking every advantage he could to whisper in her ear or stand behind her, press to her back, and position her hips. Sam finished his beer and shoved the glass forward for refill. "This is the most uncomfortable I've been...ever."

"Amen." Dean took another shot, face wrenching a little at the burn. "Absolutely disgusting. Worst idea ever. That girl is- that girl is-"

She looked at them now as the guy circled the table, her expression vague until she caught their eyes before she makes a face, subtle, barely more than a blink of absolute comical disgust. "I want a drink," she whines over her shoulder. "I'm gonna get something else to drink. Wait for me?"

"Sure, sure." He doesn't lift his head except to watch her hips sway as she stumbles towards the bar, squeezing up amidst patrons between the brothers.

"Shot of whiskey, please," she requested carelessly and then, without turning her head, addressed them. "Can't I pick 'em?" she trilled, voice heavy with sarcasm, fiddling with the damp napkin under Sam's beer, her finger tips centimeters from the back of his hand before she let go turning to wave, the words dropping from the corner of her mouth. "I bet he's married." Sam snorted, Dean's lips twitched a little. Skirt flipping a little, she refaced the counter took her drink, sliding a tip across the bar, nodding subtly to one of the other tables. "There's a game starting up over there." A quick wink before she knocked her head back and swallowed hard, slamming the empty glass back down with a jarring click. "Pay your way, boys." Her voice rasped a little and she coughed into her fist, swishing back to her mission. "I'll be sure to scream shrill as I can for help if anything bad happens, so you can stop glowering. It's a little distracting."

* * *

They approached after the last game, as her mark begrudgingly shelled out another hundred to match the two fifties in her fist. "Thanks," she beamed, and he spat on the floor, a gob of saliva glistening by the toe of her boots.

"Bitch."

Dean cocked an eyebrow and took a step forward, Sam just behind, but Jo looked more offended for her shoes then him. "Oh blow me, asshole. I won fair and square." A combined glower from the three of them and the fellow decided to try his luck with someone who didn't have two very grouchy looking men-at-arms and wasn't holding her stick like she meant to bash his head in with it. Jo sighed softly, like a bar fight could have only improved the evening and hefted the cue over her shoulder. "Wanna play a round, Sam?"

He blinked at her, trying to weasel out what she had in mind but she just looked back blandly. Sam was smart but girl's and their subtleties was still a little hard to navigate; he left this one to chance, sure she had something up her sleeve if not what. "Sure."

He staked out a table, Dean trailing behind after scanning the counter casually for any hot chicks and coming up dry as Jo retrieved a cue, a little on the long side to suit his equally lengthy arms. He moved to take it but she held on, her eyes hard with determination. A note of exasperation crept into her voice. "Nobody takes me seriously as a hunter."

Dean snorted. "Damn straight."

She ignored him, her brown eyes fixed on Sam's, her hand falling reluctantly back to her side. "I want you two to help me." She looked cross at the admission of requiring anything but her own gumption, but blundered on. "I mean our fathers-" Her face flushed and she broke off abruptly with an almost pained expression and Dean winced like he'd been shot. Sam could almost taste the dust in his mouth from that afternoon, the way Jo's shape had faded in the rear view like a mirage. How they hadn't talked until they stopped for the night; Dean just blasted Metallica and drove like there were hordes of demons on their tail. She turned her back on them then and Dean's face closed off like a door had been shut, blunt finger tips clutching the leather of his jacket.

Sam leaned on his cue, slumping a little so he could manage it, resting his chin on the tops of his fists he watched Jo rack the balls, her nails clacking quietly on their lacquered skins. His head raced a mile a minute, skirting sore thoughts about John to focus on her, vibrant under the lamp hovering hazily above them. She was a rookie, with potential. She was Ellen's daughter. She was Jo Harvelle. Reasons for and against battled for supremacy but what came out of his mouth instead was: "Do you even know any Latin?"

"No," she returned blithely, standing back and leveling her cue to take the first shot with a brisk claim to the back left pocket. Sunk. She hummed something that sounded suspiciously familiar as she crossed to the other side, examining her shots; Dean, who'd dragged a stool poolside and was slouching casually as he watched seemed to perk up a little as he caught the melody, but otherwise kept his thoughts to himself. Her voice was a little too breathy, trying too hard for something, or maybe she was just concentrating, but it wasn't the same as when they'd caught her singing Hot Blooded full-throatedly in the shower. The heels off her shoes stopped clicking on the floorboards and she cocked a hip, not even putting up pretenses to play the game. "You could teach me."

"Quit talking," Dean groused, "and take your shot."

Jo's lips pursed, but obeyed, aiming carelessly. "Middle right." Sunk. She walked clockwise around the table again, and he stepped back out of her way. "I'm a good hunter," she remarked over her shoulder, slipping the cue back and forth carefully, teeth worrying her lip. Dean snorted and she whipped her head around to glare at him. "I am," she repeated insistently. "Hell you said so yourself-"

"I said you did good on that hunt," Dean retorted with a patronizing coolness that usually set Jo off into a rage. "You're still a rookie."

Instead, she beamed at him. "That's what I'm saying! I need a little experience and you two are the perfect people to help. Front center." Whatever confidence was in her voice didn't make it to her hands; subtle trembles ran up her fingers and she missed. Sam straightened, a thoughtful frown on his face, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. The brother's eyes met- Dean shrugged subtly, lips still pressed thin. From the corner of his eye he could see Jo begin to nervously finger the felt. "Please?"

They where an unofficial party at the moment, Jo's presence no more strongly cemented then a spiderweb on the dash. All it'd take was a drive down to Nebraska to boot her back out of their lives as quickly as she'd stumbled in. He weighed options quickly as he balanced the cue on the table edge, scanning it blindly. "Center right." He sunk it and smiled slow. "Guess we can start with the basics. Holy water?" Jo's face lit with a smile, eyes warm and sunny. She took a halting step forward and stopped, hands perching on the pool table.  
"Sure." He hesitatingly wondered if she'd been about to hug him, how her little form would fit against his before brushing the thought aside. "Right then. Erm...repeat after me? Exorcizo te." Jo parroted it back, slightly garbled and he chuckled. "No. That was-that was kind of awful."

She looked cross for half a second before laughing herself. "Absolute shit."

"It's more of a..." A waitress strode over, a pitcher slosh full of amber beer and cheap cloudy plastic glasses clutched in her bony hands. "From the fellow over there," she informed them and strode back off. Jo squinted towards the bar and frowned; Sam followed her gaze to her opponent from the previous game who waved with a smarmy grin plastered on his face.

"Cheap beer and Zeppelin IV side one," she muttered ominously. "I told you." He frowned as she did, though less severely, fingering the handle with one hand before wicked inspiration struck. To Dean's amusement and Jo's whining ("Sam! Just cause it's cheap doesn't mean I don't want some!") he took a hard swallow straight from it's lip, warm beer rushing down his throat. It'd take two and half pitchers to himself to get him fully and properly drunk, but just the taste and the look on Jo's face- first shock, then laughter- was enough to make him giddy and he grinned at her would-be suitor. The man turned away, disgruntled, Dean laughing throatily in the background.

"Right then," he said, wiping his upper lip on the skin of his wrist, warm and a little salty with sweat. "Where were we?"

"Exorcizo te," Jo replied just as Dean demanded, "Is this game going anywhere?"

He shoved a cue in Dean's hand. "Take a shot then, if you're so impatient," the tag slipping off his tongue smooth as water. "Jerk."

Dean's eyes danced up at them from under his lashes, a wide smile creeping over his lips. "I'm gonna kick your ass," he told Jo gleefully.

She beamed back, breath a little drawn as she took in his smile, the sharp inhale harsh against Sam's ears. "Just you try," she threatened, turning back to Sam. "Exorzio te," she repeated over the clack of Dean's cue and his cheers, the words slightly smoother.

"Better," he allowed. "Again."

By closing she could stumble through it, with prompting, half-decently. He could almost feel his father beside him, drilling them in the car, her voice twining in and out of the memory of their dutiful repetitions.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters I've arranged in the scenario below for my own entertainment.

**Timeline**: And back to the flash forward!

**Notes:** So originally I didn't intend for this chapter to be here, but I've disappeared for so long that I needed to put something down and frankly, this fit. For those of you who are still hanging on, thank you, and I'm sorry for the wait. I am unbeta-ed and seeing as I'm entering this at 3 in the morning, I might need to pop back and edit more thoroughly, but like I said. Wanted to have something up for you.

* * *

Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, making the room softly brighter and making the Winchesters look even more out of place. Both their faces were lightly sunburned, Dean's freckles standing out dark again the reddened skin, and both clothed in leather jackets; strange and tall and awkward against the pristinely bare white walls of her kitchen. Jo puffed her cheeks and steepled her hands; they regarded her with the same grim looks: Dean's more stony and Sam's flickering with too much emotion for her to read. They'd sit there till kingdom come, she thought dryly, scowling and shuffling feet. That was in their rights, she supposed, not that it made her life any easier. Sucking in a long sigh she gestured vaguely to the cabinets. "Do you want something to drink? I've got rum and scotch in the cupboards and..."

"Yes," Dean filled in shortly as Sam, brows furrowed, politely refused. They exchanged a look she couldn't discern; once she would've guessed at their thoughts, filling in with cheeky dialogue and over dramatic posturing but now, she was too far outside their circle to even try. She stood, wobbling imperceptibly on swollen ankles and sought ought the liquor. Sam's chair clattered behind her as he crossed the small space in long strides to reach the cabinets first. "You shouldn't be doing that in your condition," he supplied weakly, under the gaze of her frank state and pursed lips.

"What Sam? Breathe? It's a baby. It won't burst out of my stomach if I, you know, _move_."

He shrugged and didn't say anything else, just pursed his lips slightly and passed Dean the bottle, beginning the search for a glass. She didn't offer him directions, just sat back down,and stared at Dean as he took long swallows straight from the bottle. "Classy," she deadpanned, and Sam turned behind her, and huffed, dropping a glass on the table with a not so subtle clink. Dean ignored it, shooting them both a sour look as he took another rebellious swig, a silent fuck you to both of them. Mostly her. Nearly completely to her. She deserved that.

She just didn't want to take it.

Sam didn't sit again, but remained standing, his shadow enveloping them both and Jo, sick with desperate fear, thought she might start to cry. Her hands fisted on her stomach and she concentrated on breathing through her nose, and letting her eyes water; daring to defy jumbled pregnancy hormones that threatened to exacerbate her every emotion into melodramatic scenes worthy of morning soaps.

A lawn mower started up somewhere close by, it's domesticated growls breaking her concentration and sending them all jumping. She grinned ruefully across the table and Dean's scowl switch-bladed up into a small smile, before he caught himself and the line uncreased, lips stilling into firm lines once more.

"Nice neighborhood," Sam offered stiffly, and she laughed aloud then, tinny and desperate.

"Yeah it's lovely alright. I'm the center of gossip of course, but what else could you expect? Weirdo with the knife collection, right? Now I can add unmarried pregnant girl to the list. They've been whispering since I moved in." Her chuckle was watery, both boys shuffled awkwardly, and Jo pulled it together, her self-depredation controlled now. "I keep backing into the wrong driveways, " she confessed. "All the houses look the same, especially when it's dark." She was rewarded with a snort from Dean; when she glanced towards his face again it was composed and bland again, but it was a start.

"Not suburbia girl yet?" he asked flatly, but it bordered on the edge of friendly.

She just smirked back. "You know me Dean-o," the old nickname sliding off her tongue slick as honey. "I'm a regular old soccer mom." She raised his empty glass and chinked it against the bottle. "Here's to white picket fences- the last place they'd look for a hunter on sabbatical."

* * *

Slowly they unfolded into a semblance of their past selves, smiling and chuckling and telling tales. Sam's smiles flickered on and off and Dean kicked his dirty shoos up onto the table top, and they began to talk, beyond forced chit-chat sentences. Short inane anecdotes, not the whole of the story; friends or not they were Winchesters, and Winchesters usually required a push before they started wagging their tongues. But it was good, it felt right, even when Sam broke through Dean's story of a hunt in Mississippi that'd near gone south in bad ways with, "It's ours, isn't it?"

Ours, like it belonged to the three of them together, not a mystery of parentage and responsibility. There was a gravity in his eyes that held her, didn't let her toss out some flippancy so the weight of his question didn't pin her down. She brushed her stomach absently with a thumb, both boys followed the movement with their eyes, but she was to busy feeling every tensed muscle in her back slowly relax, the ones that'd been clutched tight ever since she'd dialed Dean's number with trembling fingers and a nasty bout of morning sickness. "Yeah," Jo finally returned, her head tilted up to face him. "It's ours."

He reached forward then, watching her carefully like she was an animal that might bite if he moved to quick, before his hand settled on her stomach. Dean watched intently from the other side of the table, and she knew he wouldn't move, not until she gave him a sign. Jo'd never been one for subtly; she leaned forward and grabbed his arm, dragging him awkwardly about the table sides until he was besides his brother, wide-eyed and shy, and she pressed his hand to her too. "Sometimes it kicks," she admitted, and both boys looked at her with intent interest, belying some deep, longing.

Dean's smile looked pained, his eyes unusually soft and tender. It was Sam who took the lead this time on the scolding of Jo Harvelle. "You should have told us," he admonished her coolly, and Jo felt herself stiffening again, guilty and furious for being called out.

"What do you think I'm doing? I called didn't I?"

He leveled her with a look, and she knew what he meant. Not soon enough. Not in time to watch her stomach grow, inch by inch, or hold her back when she was sick, or hear the child's first heartbeats echoing in crazy breathy gasps, from hospital monitors. She looked away, biting her lip. "I-I was..." She chewed the flesh viciously for a moment, before blurting it out. "It's...there's a kid inside of me, Sam, and I just panicked alright? I brought prenatal vitamins and orange juice and bagels and I drove for a day and a half because I didn't know what I was going to do! I couldn't-I couldn't have it and give it away, that'd hurt to bad, but I didn't want to have it either, at first. I just thought y'all would want to know! I don't want anything, I'm just going to have it and take it home and explain to my Mother...somehow and..."

Dean squeezed her knee, raising a finger to her lips, momentarily stern. "Shh," he ordered, and she hushed, wiping her nose on her wrist feeling young and old all at once, before she felt it, the press of a foot from the inside of her out, a soft, gentle tremolo of movement, that truly set her still. "It's kicking," he whispered solemnly, and the brothers shared a look of profound, silent, awe that Jo presided, smiling slightly, over.

"I'm sorry," she murmured back after a moment, afraid to break the spell. "I should've...sooner."

Sam shrugged. "I know," he murmured and kissed her on the forehead.

* * *

She woke, mildly dazed, in her bedroom, the afternoons light dimmed to evenings more somber glow. The soft sound of voices was confusing first- she listed sharply, forehead furrowing. Had she left the TV on? And then it hit her. Winchesters. She was up on her feet in a moment, padding barefoot across the floors.

Their heads were bent over the paper neatly, jackets spilled on chairs, sleeves rolled up over elbows, but they turned as she entered the kitchen. Sam had a faint black smudge of newspaper ink on his cheek, both looked satisfied, though Dean's expression was more smug then Sam's, the cat that'd finally caught the canary.

"What're you two up too?" she asked, inching into the room, already wary.

Sam glanced down at the paper, fingers tapping an article who's title she couldn't read. It looked like the Classifieds, if she squinted, and she found already, deep in her gut, she didn't like where this was going. "We were just thinking. You're house...I mean...it's..."

"It's shit," Dean elaborated cheerfully. "Way to small for you and the kid, let alone the three of us."

"The four of us?" she parroted back, a scowl forming over her lips. "I don't remember inviting you to stay..."

Dean ignored her blithely. "We found this fixer-upper out of town, might give it a tour to be certain, but it'd be nicer then this lot for sure. You could at least paint it whatever color you wanted. Once we got money for paint, at least." He sobered after a moment, eying her seriously. "What did you think would happen when you told us, Jo? We'd just show up, admire your stomach, and drive off? That's our kid you've got there, and we're going to take care of him." He hesitated a second, jamming hands into his pockets boyishly, every other part of his stance that of a mans. "And you. The rest-" he flapped his hand, glancing desperately back to Sam for assistance.

"The rest we'll figure out later," Sam chimed in firmly. "When the time comes."

Jo breathed out, long and slow. She wasn't done with this fight, even if it was already clear to her she'd lost. She stole Dean's chair unapologetically, following Sam's finger as she glanced the article over. "Just what makes you think," she asked, evenly, and sensed both of them readying themselves to shut her down, "that it's going to be a boy?"

Dead silence. She peered up through her lashes innocently, to study their stunned faces. Dean's mouth hung half-open with a retort frozen on the tip of his tongue.

Sam was the one to break the silence with a laugh.


End file.
